Love Creeps

Sixteen

Lynn was secretly envied by Alan and Roland, who were yearning to find the same magic she had found.

Roland, particularly, was on the lookout for an enchanting encounter. He kept waiting for it to happen, hoping it would, but nothing of the sort was happening to him. Until early one afternoon.

He had just walked out of his usual restaurant after dropping a paper clip near the door. Outside, the day was cold and sad.

He stood at the curb, wrapping his scarf around his neck, looking left and right, searching for a taxi.

He heard a female voice near him saying, “Usually there are more of them in the street at this time.”

He looked at who had spoken. It was an attractive young woman standing next to him, alone. This was rather romantic, he thought. He told himself it was perhaps, even, as romantic as what had happened to Lynn. And it was happening to him, now, that mind-blowing romantic situation.

“Yes,” he said. “Are you here every day?”

She looked at him and asked, “What?” in a manner that seemed almost annoyed. He then noticed she had a black cord coming out of one ear. “What?” she asked him again. “I’m talking on the phone!”

The traffic light changed, and she crossed the street with a youthful stride. He heard her fading voice say to her interlocutor, “Sorry, it was just another creep who thought I was talking to him or to myself like a madwoman.” And she laughed.

Overcome with sadness, Roland could not move. He felt like a fool, and he felt old. Lynn’s sappy, silly story had gotten to him. Disgusted with himself, he clenched his fists in his pockets and remained standing there a long time.

Just as he was finally about to cross the street, he heard a woman behind him say, “Excuse me?”

He turned. A magnificent woman with black hair topped by a lock of white hair, somewhat resembling a skunk or Susan Sontag, stood there.

“Yes?” he asked.

“You dropped something,” she said.

“Yes?”

Her hand came out of her pocket, holding a paper clip. “I wasn’t sure I should bother giving this back to you.”

“Yes, you should.” He took the clip.

“In that case,” she said, “perhaps you’d like the rest of your things.”

He frowned. “What things?”

“The things you’ve lost over time.” She pulled out of her handbag a plastic baggie filled with more of his droppings.

“You must be mistaken,” he said, suddenly horribly embarrassed.

“Yes, I probably am,” she said, replacing his droppings in her bag.

He looked around, hoping to be comforted by the sight of something distracting during this awkward moment.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I come to this restaurant every day to have lunch and work at my laptop. I’ve seen you here very often, losing things. You’ve lost so much over time.”

He didn’t know what to say.

She added, “I wonder why.”

He thought about it, and for the first time the answer came to him. “To find something more precious.”

Then, looking away, but holding his hand out to her, he said, “Can I have my things?”

She reached into her bag and gave him his lost things. The package was too big to fit in his pocket, so he held it discreetly at his side, in as small a ball as he could make it.

“I met my soulmate,” Roland told the others at a dinner reunion he had insisted upon, two weeks after their last one.

“You did?” Ray asked.

Alan flagged down a waiter and ordered a cocktail to get either flatteringly carded or drunk.

“Do you have some identification?” the waiter asked.

“I lost my driver’s license ages ago. Do you really think I could be twenty-one or younger?”

“It’s possible,” the waiter said.

“I’ll have a Virgin Mary,” Alan said, and turned to Roland. “You were telling us you met your soulmate.”

“Yes. She had my things!” Roland said.

“What things?” Ray asked.

“The things I’ve been dropping for years.”

“You’ve been dropping things?”

“Yes.”

“What kinds of things?” Alan asked.

“Buttons, paper clips, pennies, movie stubs.”

“How often?”

“Every day. Many times a day.”

“Where?”

“Wherever I happen to be. Usually as I leave a place.”

“On purpose?”

“Utterly.”

“Littering?”

“No, losing.”

“Why?” they all asked at the same time.

“In order to find something more precious.”

“Like what, a woman who’ll pick up after you?” Lynn said.

“No.”

“Then what thing more precious?” Alan asked, holding his Virgin Mary. “What is this vague bullshit explanation?”

“I don’t know,” Roland replied, sipping his white wine. “All I know is that I always go around with something to lose. I can’t stand having nothing to lose. I can never leave a place without leaving something behind, even if it’s just lint from my pocket. Otherwise, I experience discomfort. If you’ve got a better explanation, then tell me.”

“Yes, I’ve got one,” Alan said. “You lose things. Hence, you’re a loser.”

“I lose things on purpose.”

“Well, then, you’re a double-duty loser.”

“No,” Ray said. “The subconscious reason you were dropping things was to give anyone who wanted to meet you an excuse to. It was your way of reaching out to people. You wanted people to have access to you despite your cold facade.”

“Maybe,” Roland replied. “But then why did I sometimes drop things where no one could approach me, like in the middle of the ocean?”

“Dropping things had become a compulsive habit,” Ray said. “Since you weren’t exactly aware of why you were doing it, it’s logical that you would sometimes do it when it didn’t make sense. No?”

“God, you should have been a therapist,” Lynn said, impressed.

“Yeah, I was.”

“But you said you were a locksmith!”

“I lied. I was a psychologist.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Various reasons.”

“How did you become homeless, if you were a psychologist?” Alan inquired.

“I was a bad psychologist.”

“Bad how?” Roland asked.

“Oh …” Ray hesitated.

“Did you analyze people poorly?” asked Lynn.

“No …”

“You gave bad advice?” Roland guessed.

“No …”

“Did you betray confidences?” he guessed again.

“No …”

“Then what?” asked Alan.

“I asked too many questions.”

They thought he was commenting on their interrogation of him. “Oh, come on, tell us!” said Lynn.

Ray was confused. “I just told you. I asked my patients too many questions.”

“But a therapist is supposed to ask a lot of questions!” Alan said.

“Yes, a lot, but not too many. I asked too many. Too often.”

“What do you mean, too often?”

“I’d call them up every hour at home and ask for updates.”

“Oh.”

“But I was pretty good at analyzing behavior and giving advice. Roland, if you had told me sooner of your compulsive habit of dropping things, I could have helped you understand it.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Roland replied. “If you had told us sooner that you were a therapist, I might have told you of my habit.”

“It’s a good thing neither of you did,” Lynn said, “because if you had, Ray might have cured you of your compulsive habit, and prevented you from ever meeting your soulmate.”

“Hey, Roland,” Alan said. “See, didn’t I tell you things would work out for you? I predicted you’d not only survive the ocean but probably also have a happy life. Just because you’re an asshole doesn’t mean you’ll ever suffer for it or be punished. And what about me? I’ve made a real effort to turn my life around and be a good person, and what do I get? I’m all alone and unhappy, and I’ll probably never meet anyone.”

“Yeah, you might be right,” Roland said. “You make a convincing argument.”

“I comforted you in the water. Why do you have to be so negative?”

“I thought you were just being truthful back then. Now I’m just being truthful back — realistic,” Roland said. “It’s true that life’s unfair. I didn’t deserve to meet this amazing woman. I don’t really deserve to be happy. But she does. And I want to make her happy.”

Alan was jealous of Lynn and Roland. He wanted to meet his soulmate, too. Now that Lynn and Roland had experienced the same magic, they probably expected it of him. He felt the pressure. And it was not agreeing with him.

He told them that he was worried because he didn’t have a secret “real” name or a secret wacko habit that only his soulmate could recognize. So what was he supposed to do?

Lynn replied, “You probably have one without realizing it. Everyone has secret quirks.”

“Well I don’t! All my quirks are visible.”

“Don’t worry, somehow it’ll happen,” she said. “And if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.”

He was afraid it would not happen, afraid he would be discontent forever. It wasn’t fair. It drove him crazy, this trend, this craze of soulmates popping up. He started acting erratically.

He went around doing all sorts of weird takeoffs on what the two others had done. He invented various quirks for himself, and rituals, to see if his soulmate would recognize him. For example, he threw fistfuls of rose petals in the faces of women walking down the street, then watched for their reactions. When that didn’t work, he tried throwing Godiva chocolates up in the air and behind him while walking down crowded Fifth Avenue, and then he would turn around to see if a woman had been hit, or perhaps had even caught one, and seemed taken with him — his soulmate. But no. People were either brushing cocoa powder off themselves and looking annoyed, or looking at the ground in surprise where a chocolate truffle had landed. Since nothing good came of that plan, he engaged in his next one. He bought small diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and opals, and threw them lightly in women’s faces.

He also considered walking around with his rat, holding it out to women like a soulmate detector, to see if any of them were charmed. But what was the point — if petals, chocolates, and precious stones hadn’t worked, why would a rat? So he persevered with the pelting.

When Lynn, Roland, and Ray heard about what he was doing, they tried to explain to Alan that their own quirks were not manufactured.

And he said, “Well, I do have a natural quirk. I lightly stone women with beautiful little rocks. Why can’t you accept that’s my natural quirk?”

“You are crazed,” Ray said to him with concern.

“So I’m romantically doomed because I don’t have any hidden quirks, is that it?” He was having this conversation with them from jail, where he was being kept overnight after having finally been arrested for throwing stones.

Lynn brought her soulmate, Jim, to art openings and dinners and parties. When people asked him what he did, Lynn didn’t mind that he was a florist and that he said so. She was proud, in fact. He was so obviously charming and intelligent that being a florist only added appeal in her judgment. And her judgment was excellent.

Ray, Lynn, and Alan found a couple of nicknames for Roland’s girlfriend, Victoria. One of them was “the Translator,” because, as Lynn put it, “She translates this French asshole into a nice person.” They also nicknamed her “the Picker-Upper.”

The Translator saw what was great about Roland and enabled other people to see it, too. If Roland did or said something that seemed unappealing, she’d be able to explain why it was actually appealing, or she’d simply rephrase his obnoxious statement in a manner that made it convincingly pleasant. She never opposed. She skewed.

Roland often said about her, “She gets me.” He loved himself for loving her. A guy like him should normally never be evolved enough to be attracted to her, nor be attractive to her. She was smart. She was strong. She did not wear makeup. And she even had a touch of masculinity about her. She was a banker. He was intoxicated.

Alan gave up acquiring fake quirks. He tried to forget about romance and decided to redirect his attention toward small domestic matters, like cleaning his apartment and finally getting rid of his white easy chair. He put it out on the sidewalk for the garbage people to take during their next round. It was not an easy thing to do, emotionally. Since he had always identified with his chair, he almost felt as if he were putting himself out with the trash, throwing himself away. Sometimes a small sadness can distract us from a large sadness more effectively than a small joy can.

Hoping to distract himself from the small sadness, he went grocery shopping. On his way back, he saw a taxi parked near his white easy chair, and its driver was hauling his chair into the trunk with the help of a pretty girl. The girl was taking his chair. She found it desirable. Alan stood there with his plastic bags full of toilet paper and frozen dinners, looking at the spectacle. The girl was slapping dust off her hands. She turned and saw him. She held his gaze. She did not exactly smile, but had a pleasant expression nevertheless. And then she ducked into the cab, which drove off.

Alan wasn’t sure what hit him. Or rather, he felt as if something had almost hit him but had missed. He had just been handed, by fate, an opportunity to experience one of those magical romantic moments, and he had let it slip by. He could have approached the girl and told her she was holding his chair. Even if it hadn’t been his chair, it would have been a good line. But since it was his chair, it was an excellent line. That’s my chair. You like my chair. You are taking my chair. No one else wants or likes my chair. But you do. We have the same taste in chairs.

He went up to his apartment. He slammed the front door, went straight to his couch, and sat there, with his plastic bags, staring at the empty space that used to contain his white easy chair. He buried his face in his hands.

He should have told her that was his chair. Maybe she would have admired his taste.

A few days later, Roland and his soulmate the Translator, Victoria, were having dinner with Lynn, Alan, and Ray. Lynn’s soulmate hadn’t been free to join them, but was planning to meet up with them afterward.

Midway through the meal, Lynn was noticing how happy Roland seemed. A series of thought connections made her ask him if he’d ever gotten his refill. They’d all been meaning to ask him — especially Ray, with his curiosity disorder — but kept forgetting.

Roland was speechless, stunned that Lynn knew about his cyanide. Then he realized she didn’t know. He recalled telling them in the ocean that he wished he’d gotten a refill, to ease his oceanic suffering. That’s all he’d said — a refill — without specifying of what or in what, without mentioning cyanide or his locket.

He sighed with relief. “Yes, I did. But I’ve lost interest in that now.” He paused, wanting to appear as though he were changing topics. “Oh, by the way, look!” He opened his locket. Inside was a picture of Victoria.

They murmured with appreciation.

“What was in there before? You never did show us,” Alan said.

“None of your business.” Roland snapped his locket shut.

“Yes, your interest is much appreciated,” translated Victoria, “but men who treat love wonderfully seriously aren’t always ready to reveal the inside of their locket.”

Later in the meal, they touched lightly on their ocean experience. Victoria already knew the story from Roland.

Ray asked them if they all still regretted having committed their semisuicide.

They all nodded.

Ray said with frustration, “How can you guys continue to regret it, when in fact you have to admit it gave you one of your greatest pleasures in life?”

Roland scowled. “Which was what?”

“Coming out of the water,” Ray said.

“What kind of freak would come up with such ideas?” Roland said.

“It’s true, only mad geniuses come up with this sort of stuff,” Victoria reworded.

“Thank you,” said Ray, charmed.

“Victoria is incredible,” Alan said to Roland. “She not only picks up your droppings but wipes up your messes. You definitely don’t deserve her. I don’t know how you got so lucky. I’ll never be that lucky. I was almost lucky, the other day. For a second, I had a chance to meet this amazing girl in a very romantic way in the street, but I didn’t grab the opportunity, and now it’s lost.”

“You’ll get other chances,” Lynn said.

“Not like this one. This felt … unique.” Alan shook his head. “Things aren’t going so well for me right now. And it doesn’t help that I’ve spent all my money on precious and semiprecious stones.”

Roland said, “No one understands better than I the urge to leave a little something behind. But Alan, I left paper clips, buttons, and pennies, not diamonds, sapphires, and opals!”

Alan shrugged. “I’m less cheap.”

“Better cheap than whine about it afterward,” Roland snapped.

“Yes,” elucidated Victoria, “one of the disadvantages of being a supergenerous person like you, Alan, is that if your gifts happen not to be appreciated, your suffering and loss are greater.”

“And plus, you didn’t have to leave the precious stones behind!” Roland said to Alan.

“I didn’t have someone to pick up after me like you do, Roland.”

No one spoke.

Alan finally added, “Oh, I don’t even care about being broke. I don’t know why I mentioned it. I’m just sorry I let that unique romantic opportunity slip through my fingers.”

“I’m sure it was unique,” Ray said. “But each one is unique.”

“Perhaps,” said Alan. “But this one felt more unique.”

The days were passing monotonously for Alan. He was depressed and lonely. It didn’t help that removing his chair had left a hole in his living room, a void which Pancake, Bugsy, Toto, and Fuzz-fuzz were only partly able to fill. Alan had trouble getting used to that hole. It kept reminding him of the special opportunity he had failed to grab. He decided he would buy a new chair, another white chair, to plug up the hole and help him stop thinking of the girl he could have met. But he wasn’t sure the new chair would do much good, because in his heart, he’d know it was not the same chair.

He told himself he’d pull through this bad period. The pets were a help. And he was forcing himself to go out more, meet new people. He would turn his life around. He had done it before; he believed he could do it again. There was a new beading class he had his eye on and was keen on taking. If he never found an ideal mate, or even a vaguely adequate mate, he could still be happy. If he worked at building a rich and fulfilling life for himself, happiness would come eventually, even if a soulmate didn’t.

One late afternoon, his doorman buzzed him. “There’s a woman down here who wants to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“She says you don’t know her, but that she has something for you.”

He took the elevator down, not wanting to let any strange woman into his apartment.

In the lobby stood the pretty girl who had taken his chair.

Approaching her, he said, softly, “You have my white elephant.”

She smiled, looking puzzled. “No, your driver’s license. It was in the cushions of your chair. I wasn’t sure how long ago you lost it and if you had already gotten a new one. I didn’t know if I should even bother giving it back to you.”

“Yes, you should. They card me incessantly.”

She laughed, handed him his license.

Looking down thoughtfully, he murmured, mostly to himself, “Sometimes, when you lose something, you find something more precious.” Suddenly worried he had sounded corny, he said, “I lost my chair, but I found my precious driver’s license.” He looked up at her. “Listen, I’d love to get occasional reports on my chair. Can I give you my number?”

She laughed. “Sure. I’ll just give you my card.” She took a business card out of her handbag. “I’ll write my home number on it. I don’t always do that, because I’ve had problems with stalkers.”

Flustered and off-balance, Alan chuckled. While she wrote her number on her card, he tried to think of what a normal, healthy, average man would answer.

Finally, he said, “Don’t worry, I gave up stalking long ago.”

She looked at him with a startled air and laughed.

They had dinner and drinks twice that week. He was carded each time and showed his driver’s license.

Soon, he got to see his chair again. He got to sit in it. And do other wonderful things in it. And see his soulmate sitting in it. And see her sitting on him sitting in it. And him on her, in it. And him in her. And them in it.

THE END

(for the faint of heart, do not read further)